


The Chance of a Lifetime

by Alramech



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spirit Animals (kinda), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inaugural Season, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Team Fluff, marc-andre fleury needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-08-11 05:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alramech/pseuds/Alramech
Summary: Marc-Andre Fleury can understand why people are so interested in Cors. Even though all professional teams have a Cor, they aren’t really publicized on the level the players often were. They appear in a very limited amount of advertisements and promotional videos but they are always present at games, so they’re not exactly hidden from the public either. Marc-Andre believes that the interest stems from the fact that sports teams have a physical equivalent to a spirit animal; considerably absurd when they began showing up decades ago but in today’s world they are viewed as just another part of life.Marc-Andre knew Vegas' Cor would form eventually and it was possible that their Cor may form within the next couple of years. However, he didn't believe that it would have happened before the season even got started.





	1. What are the Chances?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of like the prologue. I just want to see what kind of feedback I receive for this plot. :)

Marc-Andre Fleury can understand why people are so interested in Cors. Even though all professional teams have a Cor, they aren’t really publicized on the level the players often were. They appear in a very limited amount of advertisements and promotional videos but they are always present at games, so they’re not exactly hidden from the public either. Marc-Andre believes that the interest stems from the fact that sports teams have a physical equivalent to a spirit animal; considerably absurd when they began showing up decades ago but in today’s world, they are viewed as just another part of life. 

As a new professional sports team franchise developed, so did its magic and aura; the fans are the primary reason due to their ability to see and create the magic. As the fan base builds for a team the magic will begin to solidify and within a decade of the team’s creation, a Cor will have been created. A Cor is a physical, living representation of the heart of the team forms. They form an unshakable bond with the players on the team, and in some cases the staff as well. Cors only have the ability to communicate with players on the team they have bonded with, however. The stronger the bond between the Cor and the players, the more together the team is as a unit and with one another. On some teams, the Cors spend a lot of time with the captains. Outside of games, practices, etc the Cor might only be with the captain. Although the case on many teams is that the Cor bonds with a majority or all of the players, shifting between them on days off. Players aren’t offended or hurt if the Cor doesn’t spend any time with them because there are players who are only there to play, preferring not to get attached to a team. In new teams, the Cor either develops a strong or weak bond with the players. This often dictates how independent a Cor may be from the team despite the connection between the Cor and team. 

Additionally, young teams will have young Cors, taking the shape of a young animal. When the franchise has stabilized, the Cor will physically evolve into an adult of a species. However, Cors are immortal, so when they hit physical adulthood they will never age further. In addition to immortality, they don’t need to eat or drink (but can). They have a heartbeat and breathing lungs, but don’t need to breathe either. Cors also have their own thoughts and emotions, however, these thoughts can be heavily influenced by the team. If the team is angry so is their Cor. And while the team may not act upon their anger, some Cors who are more prone to anger often act on these emotions. And while they may wish to inflict pain, it is impossible due to the fact that they simply know better. So while some Cors may look fierce and dangerous, they are essentially harmless. 

Cors aren’t limited to this time period either. The Nashville Predators’ Cor, Gnash, and the Buffalo Sabre’s Cor, Sabretooth, are both Saber-Toothed Tigers from prehistoric times. And the New York Islander’s Cor, Sparky, is a blue and orange dragon so they’re not limited in that way either. But no matter the animal they settle upon, change is possible at any point in time of a Cor’s existence. 

Older Cors will have likely gone through change just as their teams did. When the name and or values of a team change it has happened where they physically change as well. For example, when the Dallas Stars were the Minnesota North Stars, their Cor was an Eastern Timber Wolf by the name of Polaris. When they moved to Dallas and changed their name to the Dallas Stars, however, their Cor changed into a Green Iguana the team fondly named Victor E. Green. Despite the drastic changes both the team and the Cor went under, the heart of the team didn’t change; Polaris and Victor E. Green are one in the same. On the other end of the spectrum, the formation of Cors isn’t as common due to the rarity of new teams forming. Although, when new teams do form, it is inevitable for a Cor to form.

Marc-Andre knew their Cor would form eventually and even believed that it was possible their Cor may form within the next couple of years. The netminder wasn’t sure if he wants to be around when it does.

Marc-Andre won’t lie. It hurt when he separated from Pittsburgh’s Cor, Iceburgh. Playing 13 years with one team as a core member meant that he was fortunate to have such a strong bond with a Cor. He could feel his bond with the King Penguin drain oh so slowly ever since he lost the number one spot to Matt Murray, constantly tormented by the tear forming between him and the team. It got better in the Playoffs after Murray had gotten hurt; Marc felt guilty for being thankful for the chance to play once more. However, the moment he put on the Golden Knights jersey Marc was truly torn from the Penguins. He felt like he was in pieces, ripped to shreds like the confetti that fell from the sky. But the fans. The fans chanted his name, putting a few of those pieces back together.

Marc-Andre was thankful for the chance he received in Pittsburgh and thankful for the chance he had been gifted by this new expansion team, but for how long would he stay he was unsure. He wanted to keep playing. That’s all he has ever wanted. To keep playing meant they believed he could continue to perform as a top netminder, backing up the team of misfit players from every team. They would know how he felt to a certain degree and from what he’s seen in practice they have the ability to actually be something in the league; a force to be reckoned with. They had chemistry with each other and with the fans. The fans are the real driving factor. They determine a lot when it comes to the team.

But despite everything being there, the conditions perfect, Marc didn’t expect their Cor to form that soon. 

That’s why when Marc felt the warm brush of metal across his side, alarms went off in his head. He immediately felt the uncharacteristically thick aura in the room, the kind that only a stadium full of fans could expell. Marc could tell what it was, but that didn’t ease the pounding of his heart in his chest. After turning on the bedside lamp, he slowly peeled back the covers on his side of the bed. Even as Vero stirred, Marc’s eyes never left the golden body curled up against his side. The warm light from the lamp reflected off its metallic scales, bouncing the light onto the surroundings. 

“Is that the Cor?” Vero asked quietly, eyes half closed but becoming increasingly alert with each passing minute. Marc nodded, hesitant to inadvertently disturb the sleeping creature. “I thought Vegas’ Cor hadn’t formed yet… You haven’t even played a game yet,” she pointed out, scooting closer until she was gently pressed to her husband’s side. She peered at metallic-scaled being. 

“We have been getting along well,” Marc-Andre mentioned thoughtfully. “There’s real chemistry. We clicked as a team, especially recently.” He paused for a moment. “Prob’ly snuck in my bag,” he added with a weak grin. 

“I’m glad you are giving it a chance,” Vero pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“The city or the team?” Marc questioned with a genuine, yet sad smile. 

“Both,” she smiled back. 

‘Chance’

Marc looked down to see the Cor had awoken and was sitting on his lap, ruby eyes peering up at him. The netminder was stunned. It usually took a couple of years before Cor’s could actually communicate telepathically with players, outside of their basic intuition. 

‘Chance’ 

This time the Cor spoke more insistently, determined on being understood despite the clear limitations it faced. “Well, his name is Chance,” Marc began once more after it took a moment to interpret what just happened. “And it appears he is a dragon.”


	2. You Get One Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chance leaped out of Marc-Andre’s duffel bag, wanting to explore now that they were inside the practice arena rather than continue to sit back and enjoy the ride. The goaltender watched Chance bound further down the hallway and take a sharp turn at the end of the corridor. The cor’s disappearance only slightly worried the goalie because he had already demonstrated his aptitude for teleporting that morning. Marc glanced at his watch and swore under his breath; he was a few minutes late to breakfast with the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as I'd like, but it'll have to do. I have big plans for some future chapters to stay with me!

From the kitchen, Marc-Andre watched Estelle and Scarlet interact with the newly-formed Cor. They had taken an immediate liking to the small, golden dragon and it appeared the feeling was mutual. The Cor pranced around playfully, tail swaying similar to a dog’s. 

“Girls,” he announced at last. “Breakfast is ready.” Not long after, Estelle and Scarlet came running into the kitchen. Estelle gently placed the Cor onto the chair next to her. 

Chance put his front feet on the counter, hind legs still on the chair, as he gazed curiously at a plate of steaming bacon. The Cor tilted his head and leaned closer, claws failing to get a grasp on the granite surface as he shifted focus from Marc to the plate. 

“It is bacon,” he explained, already knowing the question on his mind. “Here,” Marc said, taking a bit out of a piece of bacon in as a demonstration before placing it on an empty plate in front of the small dragon. Chance struggled for a moment, back legs kicking out as he hauled himself onto the countertop, huffing once he was finally up. After prodding it with his snout, he bit into the piece of meat with his slightly-dull, baby canines. Within seconds Chance had scarfed the bacon down and was bouncing impatiently on the counter. The Cor let out short, shrill trill-like chirps, claws clicking on the counter with each bounce. “Oh geez. Okay” Marc grinned, grabbing a few more pieces and putting them on the plate. Chance devoured the extra bacon and Marc caved into giving him a few more. “No more, alright?” He chuckled, grabbing Estelle and Scarlett’s now vacant plates. As he joined his wife in washing the dishes, the netminder was able to spot a flash of gold in the corner of his eye. Marc was able to get only a glimpse of Chance darting to the plate of bacon to snatch the last one before darting off to the living room. He shook his head in disbelief before turning back around to finish off the last few pans and plates. 

“You’re going to be late,” Veronique warned playfully, a smirk pulling at her lips. The netminder quickly glanced at the clock on the oven before darting out of the kitchen. Within 10 minutes he had gotten dressed and packed his bag. Grabbing his keys off the counter, Marc pressed a kiss to his daughter’s cheeks and hugged them goodbye. Turning to his wife, they shared a quick kiss before Marc was out the door. 

When he got into the car to leave for practice, however, Chance appeared in the passenger seat. The Cor would have appeared without any indication had it not been for the soft pop that was made upon his appearance. The sound could be compared to the satisfying, muted pop produced by a bottle of champagne when opened for the first time. While the unique sound produced by the Cor upon teleportation was not at all surprising--Iceburgh was accompanied by the sound of someone breaking a hockey stick in two--the fact that Chance was capable of teleporting in the first place was an indication of something bigger than himself. For a Cor to be capable of teleporting to a player it could take up to a couple of years. Marc shook his head and shifted gears, pulling out of the driveway. The netminder could not fathom any legitimate rationality for Chance to be this closely bonded to him, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

While Marc was not too fond of letting people into his thoughts, he felt a large degree of relief in the fact that he once again had people who were able to tell when something was wrong. This team seemed especially tuned into one another, capable of seeing past all sorts of mental barriers each other put up. And in a way, Marc was thankful for the fact that from the first captain’s practice they were able to sense that the move ripped out a part of him. 

The netminder was additionally shocked, and relieved, by how quickly things were paced. The Golden Knights were already unbelievably close as a team and as friends. Marc understands that they will never surpass the bond he had created in Pittsburgh, no one could, but he also recognizes how right it feels to be playing with the team. He felt like he was meant to be in here, in Vegas, and the formation of Chance only solidified that statement. 

Shifting the car into gear, Marc pulled out of the driveway and onto the street. The drive to the practice arena wasn’t long, only 15 or so minutes from his house, but the mutual silence shared between the netminder and Cor made the drive to feel longer. Marc was used to driving to practice with nothing but his thoughts for company. That lonely silence allowed him to take a deep breath and let down his guard, but recently the silence has been killing him, strangling him slowly with a strong grip around his neck. The netminder was grateful for the shift, preferring the comfortable, quiet ride to the obnoxiously loud silence. 

-

Chance leaped out of Marc-Andre’s duffel bag, wanting to explore now that they were inside the practice arena rather than continue to sit back and enjoy the ride. The goaltender watched Chance bound further down the hallway and take a sharp turn at the end of the corridor. The cor’s disappearance only slightly worried the goalie because he had already demonstrated his aptitude for teleporting that morning. Marc glanced at his watch and swore under his breath; he was a few minutes late to breakfast with the team. 

His face gained a little bit of redness as he ducked into the room. Most of the team didn’t pay any attention to him but a few took notice of his arrival. Marc went over to the counter and grabbed himself a little bit of everything before sheepishly sliding next to David Perron, who had saved him a seat on his right side. 

Across from him sat Nate Schmidt, the eccentric defensemen talking loudly with animated gestures and fork in his hand. Marc smiled contently as he dug into the plate in front of him, but before long he found himself listening avidly to Nate as he told stories of college life living with Erik Haula. The later sat to the left of Nate and was content to eat his breakfast with a wide grin on his face, only interrupting to correct his former roommate or to defend himself when necessary. Eventually, a majority of the guys were roaring with laughter listening to the wild tales. Their fits of laughter were then interrupted by the pop of a champagne bottle, noise quieting down as they looked around for the spray of the celebratory drink. 

“What’s the occasion?” Jonathan Marchessault joked as they looked around for the spray of the celebratory drink. 

“Come on, Marchy,” Perron pointed out, picking up a piece of bacon and pointing at the smaller man. “You know how Turk is about celebrating too early-- Uh, Flower?” But before Perron could bring up the additional mass in his sweatshirt, a scaled head poked out from the neck of his hoodie. Everyone stared the head grew a body as it scrambled out and onto the table, landing in the goalie’s nearly empty plate. The golden mass quickly snatched Perron’s bacon from his hands and ate it before making its way down the table, collecting everyone’s bacon before sitting down back in front of Flower to eat its hoard. 

“What the fuck?” William Karlsson complained loudly, breaking the silence. “I was going to eat that!”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” 

“Well, yeah,” ‘Wild Bill’ said with an exasperated tone of voice, emphasizing the crime committed against him. “It took my bacon!” James Neal sighed and turned to Marc-Andre. 

“That’s our Cor,” Nealer stated, gesturing at the miniature dragon now eating all of the bacon that had been made, courtesy of Pierre-Edouard Bellemare. 

“No shit!” Reilly Smith snorted. 

“I thought I felt a shift in the aura,” Deryk mentioned, turning to Marc-Andre. “How long have you known?”

“Eh, I think he formed last night,” Flower admitted. “He can teleport already. Somehow,” he added after a short pause. “Chance is... different,” the goalie confirmed, struggling to find the right words to describe their Cor.

“This team is different,” Schmidty scoffed loudly, causing several of the players to roll their eyes. However, they knew he wasn’t wrong. The general consensus by those who aren’t fans or Vegas citizens is that the Vegas Golden Knights are going to be the typical expansion team, terrible first few years as a franchise. The players and staff have higher expectations. The higher-ups were saying they could make the playoffs in three years and the Stanley Cup in six years, but the players knew better. They all knew they had something special, leading them to wonder why they wouldn’t be able to go farther. The appearance of their Cor so early in the team’s existence only backs up their beliefs. 

“Okay,” Deryk started, trying to organize the happenings of the last few minutes. “So this is Chance, our Cor. You said he formed last night?” He looked to Flower for confirmation. The goalie nodded.

“He got along with the girls this morning,” he added. “He wasn’t as hyper as I thought he’d be.”

“Wait until bacon is involved,” James Neal added jokingly with a grin. 

“That’s my fault. My bad,” Flower confessed. “Sorry. Sorry.” 

“Why Chance?” Pierre-Edouard asked, turning to Fleury who merely shrugged. 

“He chose it, not me,” he confessed. “Telepathy, I think.”

“The fact that he can teleport already is extraordinary,” Nealer muttered, reaching out to feel the scales on the Cor’s back, careful of the undeveloped, folded wings. 

“I am just confused as to why he bonded with me so quickly,” Flower confessed. “Goalie’s can’t even be captains either.”

“Flower,” Perron rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he put an arm around the netminder’s shoulders. “When are you going to learn that people are naturally drawn to you?”

“He’s right, everyone loves you,” Marchy laughed. “Just accept it.”

“They’re right, Flower,” Deryk smiled at the goalie. “If anyone deserves to wear the C, it’s you."

“You’re kind of the face of the franchise,” Schmidt chirped in once more. 

“We’re in this together,” the goalie denied, becoming slightly frustrated with his teammates. Everyone at the table merely laughed at the goalie. Even Chance, who was lethargic from the greasy bacon, had a very devil-like grin. “You better watch your back,” he muttered quietly so only Nealer and Perron could hear. They quieted down quickly.


	3. Our Chance to Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of bare feet echoed across the tile floor, joining the scrapping of sticks as player’s taped them and shuffling of guys digging through duffle bags. Marc-Andre Fleury observed his teammates interact with one another quietly as he put on his gear meticulously. The goalie bit the inside of his cheek, returning his attention to the straps and buckles. Looking up once more, he noticed the lack of a presence in the room.

Deryk looked out the plane window as they took off from the runway, watching as the city he loves get smaller and smaller. 

Their departure to Dallas for the first regular season game of Golden Knights history was bittersweet; they couldn’t wait to get out onto the ice and prove their worth, but Vegas was hurting. Deryk hoped that their heavy thoughts wouldn’t drag them down, but it isn’t like any of them could help it; everyone in the entire city was affected by that tragic night. 

The defensemen could recall minute by minute what had happened.  
He remembered watching Chance pace the bedroom restlessly, letting out agonizing wails. 

He remembered sitting on the edge of the bed with his wife, Melissa, as they discussed what might have been causing the Cor to become so worked up. 

He also remembered feeling an onslaught of worry and fear that stemmed from the bond, embedded in confusion.

Then Melissa’s phone rang. 

“What the heck’s your alarm going off for?” Deryk had questioned, cutting himself off mid-sentence. Melissa reached over and grabbed her phone. 

“It’s Chelsei,” she announced, confusion and dread filling them both. “It’s 12:30 at night. Something’s wrong.” Deryk had watched as Melissa answered the phone, his hand twitching from nervousness. Melissa then quickly turned on the TV, eyes glued to the screen as the news began playing. Deryk’s heart dropped. He felt the distant confusion coming through the team’s bond. All they could do was watch the cell phone video and views of the scene as the reporter spoke. Then it had clicked. 

Deryk’s thoughts raced as he had been reminded of the close friends and family in Vegas; the firefighters and first responders. And his teammates out getting dinner on the strip. He grabbed his phone and sent the same text to friends and family in Vegas.

‘Are you O.K.? Were you down there?’ 

Deryk had lost count of the number of texts he sent that night. 

“Hey,” Reilly Smith murmured, catching Deryk’s attention. Smitty nodded his head towards where Flower sat, alone with his face in his hands. 

Chance shifted in his lap, raising his head to look around the plane. Getting to his feet, the Cor crossed over Smitty’s lap and hopped down onto the floor. Deryk kept his eyes on Chance as the small dragon trotted down the aisle and hopped up onto the seat beside Marc-Andre before turning to the conversation happening around him. 

-

Marc-Andre was one of the first on board the plane. He had stowed his bag in the compartment above him and claimed his usual spot; window seat on the left side of the plane, near the front. 

As soon as they lifted off, Marc felt something was out of place. He turned and was about to ask Sid when the realization hit harder than any slapshot to the head. Marc slowly sat back and stared blankly at the seat in front of him. His chest ached gently.

The flight attendant asked if he wanted something to eat or drink, but Marc shook his head, not trusting the words that might come out of his mouth. He sighed shakily and leaned forward, rubbing his face with his hands. Marc’s eyes fluttered closed but flew open when his hands were pried apart. Chance’s snout nuzzled his face gently. 

-

Quick chatter flitted around the visitor’s locker room of the American Airlines Center. The sound of bare feet echoed across the tile floor, joining the scrapping of sticks as player’s taped them and shuffling of guys digging through duffle bags. Marc-Andre Fleury observed his teammates interact with one another quietly as he put on his gear meticulously. The goalie bit the inside of his cheek, returning his attention to the straps and buckles. Looking up once more, he noticed the lack of a presence in the room.

While Chance was moderately well-behaved, he was capable of causing a lot of trouble. Marc-Andre accepted the blame for those parts of the Cor’s disposition because as a large part of the team for the fanbase, Marc-Andre’s personality often shines more brightly in Chance. 

Marc had been shocked when Chance had come trotting out of the locker room, someone’s clothes dragging behind him. Despite having been formed for only a few weeks, Chance had already picked up his mischievous side. But that wasn’t all. 

Everyone knew that Cor’s were all extremely different. Take a look at Florida, the only team in history with two Cors. Stanley C. Panther the Panther had been static for a couple of decades with Florida, but in 2014 a new Cor, Victor E. Ratt the Rat, had appeared. Apparently, the team’s personality and fanbase were so split that they formed a second Cor, but the team makes it work. 

“Is something wrong?” David Perron questioned Marc. But the curiosity flipped to worry the moment the goalie looked up and made eye contact. “Flower, What’s wrong?”

“Eh, I just haven’t seen Chance in a while,” he admitted, attempting to sound nonchalant, but his body language and facial expression revealed otherwise. 

“Has anyone seen Chance?” Perron asked their teammates, but they received a chorus of negative answers. “Flower hasn’t seen him lately.”

“He’s around here somewhere,” Engelland consoled, leaning forward to make eye contact with the goalie, giving him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry.”

“He’s probably causing trouble somewhere,” William Karlsson complained in annoyance, giving Flower a knowing look. 

Flower smiled and nodded. “Eh, you’re probably right,” he agreed, shying away from the bond when it reached out to him. Marc focused back on getting ready for the game. 

-

Marc-Andre made his way to the tunnel entrance, hesitating for a second before he began fist bumping his teammates. There was a pressure they brought upon themselves and a pressure to win for Vegas, causing a pounding, negative mass to grow in the bond. Marc-Andre was struggling to smuggle it. All the familiar feelings returned as he took his place in line. It felt like his first home game in Pittsburgh backing in 2003 against the LA Kings; the excitement was high, but so were the nerves. Marc remembered his walk down the tunnel, fist bumping Mario Lemieux and Marc Bergevin as he made his way to the ice. But then he remembered what had followed. 

Mario had laughed at him as he shamefully made his way back to the locker room. “You’re going to need that tonight kid,” Mario had said with a grin. 

Marc stopped and his heart skipped a beat.

“Woah!” Nate Schmidt exclaimed, bumping into his back. “Sorry, Flower!” The goalie could only sigh, looking up to the ceiling with an exasperated grin. 

“No, is my fault. I think I forgot something.” Marc replied, shaking his head. “Again” He added with a huff. 

“Yeah,” Pierre-Edouard Bellemare interrupted with a grin.”I thought you might want this,” he said, handing Marc his stick with a wide grin. The guys laughed and a few slapped him on the back.

“Again, though?” Nate Schmidt questioned, throwing an arm around the goalie’s massive shoulders.

“2003; my first NHL game,” Marc admitted sheepishly, making them roar with laughter. 

Marc felt the mess of nerves in the bond dissipate and a light, airy feeling bloomed. He was nervous but these nerves were a shining gold light; the nerves that come with the thrill of the game. 

Pop!

Suddenly, Marc is holding and wriggling Chance to his chest. He scowled at the Cor, who merely grinned at him stupidly with his canines on full display. Marc muttered a French curse under his breath. “Can you stop hitting me with your tail?” He asked out loud, annoyed by the consistent thumping of Chance’s tail on his arm, but the thumping didn’t cease. Honestly, Marc didn’t expect it to. 

Chance perked up, freezing for a second before climbing up onto his shoulder and sat patiently. They waited for the call to go on the ice.

-

The Golden Knights made their way back to the locker room, wide grins on their faces and chirps on their lips. Marc-Andre laughed along with the rest of the team, glancing up often while stripping off his gear. Chance sat beside him, tail thumping against the stall repeatedly. They had won. 

James Neal had scored both of their goals in the three-goal game, claiming ownership to the first regular season goal in Golden Knight history. Every player worked hard for every minute of the game and every player had an impact somehow, some way. A happy ending of sorts, Marc had told the media. They had given the people of Las Vegas the opportunity to forget the tragedy for 60 minutes; the ability to feel like everything was going to be alright. 

And now, sitting on the bus on the way back to their hotel, Marc still had a stupid smile on his face until Deryk Engelland stood up.

“Hey, guys!” Deryk said loudly, catching everyone’s attention, his phone in his hand. “I just wanted to share a text a buddy of mine from the fire department sent to me. ‘Man, you wouldn’t believe the spirits you’re lifting here at the fire department. We were all watching. Keep it going.’” Everyone was silent, letting the words seep in. Then a few guys exploded, standing up and cheering loudly, infecting the rest of the bus with their energy. They were whooping, hollering, and laughing, Karlsson even opening a window to share his feelings with the city of Dallas. Chance, meanwhile, had leaped out of his lap in a second to bounce across the seat backs and to bound up and down the aisle. 

“Alright,” Coach Gallant said, a smile ghosting his lips. “Alright! Let’s calm down. We still have a game to play against Arizona on tomorrow.” The guys returned to the seats, Chance slinking back to his spot on Flower’s lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly sorry for the delay. I intended on posting this over Thanksgiving, but I was buried in work and family. I will try as hard as I can to get another chapter by Christmas. This one is also small, another reason I'm incredibly sorry, but I wanted to get it out as soon as possible. I
> 
> f there is anything you want me to elaborate on, I will try my best to incorporate it into the story. Also, I am planning on going in chronological order, so no jumping around (should you want a specific event or thing be focused on, feel free to comment and I will consider it). Thanks for your feedback, it means a lot to me!


	4. Life is a Game of Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite all the nerves chattering in the locker room, there was an odd sense of calm. A serenity that lay thick over the arena and its people. All the players, Marc-Andre included, kept the music and conversations to a lower volume than they had exhibited at previous games. It felt rude to speak louder given the situation. Every member and staff of the team were all in silent agreement that losing this game was unacceptable.

“Hey Flower,” Louis Domingue called over at Marc-Andre, who was stretching beside him. There are quite a few players who find it weird to call a player of the opposing team by their nickname, but Marc-Andre was practically a league-wide exception. Marc could count on one hand the number of players who have called him by his first or last name on a regular basis. But it’s not only players, but the staff and press call him Flower as well. Hell, Bill Foley calls him Flower. During press and interviews people may refer to him by his name, but outside of the formalities, everyone uses the nickname. Domingue leaned over and nudged him again. “I wanted to ask if that was your Cor with you earlier.” Flower’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “No one else saw, don’t worry. I only figured it was your Cor because goalie intuition, you know?” He gave a little wave of his hand. 

“Yeah,” the French-Canadian cut him off. “Yeah, I get it and yeah. That was Chance.” 

“Chance, huh,” Domingue grinned. “You guys frequent the casinos?” 

“No, no,” Marc denied. “We did a couple times, but we stay away.” Marc was sure that had they played more then they would have been kicked out of the casino. He remembered when they had first noticed their advanced gambling skills. A bunch of the guys, Marc included, had acquired a recent affinity for games of high stakes. With the promise to Turk to keep drinking to a minimum, they had set off for one of the many casinos along the strip. It was during this excursion that Marc discovered his incredible card luck, but after a few rounds, he pulled out of the game. After playing a few more games, particularly a few slot machines, and winning small jackpots, Marc-Andre stepped away and began searching for his teammates. They left two hours after they walked into the casino with a verbal agreement to donate their earnings to local charities. 

Marc looked out at the players on the ice. “You guys must be pretty close.” 

“Huh?” Marc-Andre turned to face him. 

“Well, I mean, your Cor has already formed,” the other goalie tried to reword. 

“Oh,” he said sheepishly, looking back out at his teammates. “Yeah, uh, yeah, we are.” 

“That’s good then,” Domingue grinned. “Not that I want you to win, though. Nothing personal,” he added with a smile. Even though they won against Dallas, this game against Arizona on their home turf meant nearly as much. 

“It never is.” Flower returned a knowing look to the other goalie. “Not for goalies anyway,” he chuckled, nudging the Arizona goalie with his right pad before heading over to his team’s net. 

But with 1:12 left on the clock with a score of 1-2, Marc was pulled. The goalie sat on the bench, leg bouncing from the adrenaline, as the players skated in Arizona’s zone. 

Schmidt scores just before the clock runs out. 

Marc-Andre looked up at the scoreboard. 2-2. Over time. 

Marc is put back in net and receives taps from his teammate’s sticks as he skates past. Nealer, who’s been nothing but astounding, scores, giving them the win. 

A 2-0 start to the season.

The team launches over the bench and onto the ice as Marc skated down towards the massive huddle of teammates. 

Marc-Andre didn’t stop and join into the celebration. He kept going until he reached the abandoned net and snagged the pug laying static on the ice. Turning around he was met by a grinning Deryk; his helmet tapping Marc’s own as one hand resting lightly on the back of the goalie’s head. The pair moved to rejoin the large group hug, however, the group came to them. The players formed a line of sorts to celebrate individually with their goalie. 

And then together the team left for the tunnel, rejoicing their victory with excited shouts and laughter. Once in the locker room, someone turned on the music and blasted their playlist at a fairly regular volume. Marc decompressed, the usual aching and tiredness slowly forming, but the adrenaline was still high in his system. 

“We’re fucking two and oh!” Marc was sure the other’s could say the same. 

“Nealer!” Marc-Andre shouted above the music, catching the attention of his teammate. The goalie tossed him the puck he had hidden in his glove. James examined the rubber object, recognition set in. 

“Flower, how’d you get it?” He questioned, smiling even wider than before. Marc-Andre knew what the puck meant to him. Especially because he couldn’t keep either of the pucks from the Dallas games. 

Marc shrugged with a small smile, hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Eh, I saw it there, so old habits I guess,” the goalie said sheepishly. “You know, keep the winning puck.” Neal shook his head, laughing loudly as he held the piece of rubber.

Chance took that time to make an appearance in Marc’s lap, though he didn’t stay there for long. He hopped out of the goalie’s lap and padding over to Neal, snatching the puck off the bench, and bolted across the room. Neal shot up, racing after the Cor. He was quickly stopped by the media as soon as he stepped foot outside of the locker room, however, so he was forced to stay put. Neal complied to the media, giving in to the endless questions. He had to deal with a number of interruptions from teammates giving high fives and slaps on the back, but he also had to raise his voice because someone decided to crank up “Jordan Belfort” by Wes Walker & Dyl. 

During Neal’s interview Chance reappeared in the locker room, prancing around with the game-winning puck held gently in his jaws. “Come on Chance,” Nate said. The Cor stopped and turned to face the, sitting politely in the middle of the locker room. “Please put it back,” he asked nicely, pointing towards Nealer’s stall. Chance merely blinked. 

“Chance,” Deryk warned, not even looking up at the Cor. Reluctantly, Chance dropped the puck and it landed with a slight bounce on the floor. 

“Thank you,” Nate said as he bent down to scooped up the puck and examining it for teeth marks, finding none, before he deposited it in Neal’s bag. 

\-- -- --

The decision was final. 

Chance would accompany Marc-Andre Fleury on the ice, and hopefully not cause too much of a scene. Then, he would take position next to Deryk Engelland for the puck drop ceremony. Until this game, Chance had been kept out of the limelight. He had yet to appear at the ceremonial puck drop, in which each team’s cor poses beside their player, but more important is the fact that Chance hasn’t made an arranged public appearance.

Marc thought back to the conversation he had with Louis Domingue the day before in Arizona. How many people knew of Chance’s existence? The league was always changing, as was the players, so there was no telling how the magic affected individual players. But Marc was certain that the other Cors knew of Chance, but he was fairly uncertain that they would announce it to their players. They may be rivals in future matchups, however, there was a level of respect that the Cors had for one another. Brayden McNabb, whose stall was beside his own, leaned over and said something. Laughter bubbled in his chest as Nate snorted quietly, having heard what Brayden had said. 

Despite all the nerves chattering in the locker room, there was an odd sense of calm. A serenity that lay thick over the arena and its people. All the players, Marc-Andre included, kept the music and conversations to a lower volume than they had exhibited at previous games. It felt rude to speak louder given the situation. Every member and staff of the team were all in silent agreement that losing this game was unacceptable. 

That was the only thing on everyone’s mind as they lined up in the hallway, waiting for their name to be called. One-by-one they skated onto the ice beside a first responder, each drawing cheers from every fan in T-Mobile. Marc-Andre nearly stumbled in the hallway, his nerves strung high with the expectation to win this one for Vegas. Chance nudged the goalie’s neck before he took the first step. The cheering seemed to stutter as they took notice of Chance perched on Marc’s shoulder. Cameras zoomed in on the Cor, but the announcer continued on with the names. Glancing up at the large screen Marc was reminded that the ceremony was being broadcasted across the nation. Everyone now knew that Vegas’ Cor had already formed, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

The roar of the fans drowned out whatever William Carrier had leaned over to say to him. Marc had tried to lean closer but could only catch a few words. 

‘Later,’ Will mouthed with a small smile before turning his attention to the last few responders and management staff that were still being announced. As soon as all the players, staff, and first responders were in place the Arizona Coyotes emerged from their tunnel. The opposing team lined up behind them, their eyes roaming around the packed arena. 

With the Coyotes in place, the announcer came back over the loudspeaker. “Will the captains please come to center ice.” There was a bit of a debate over who to send out for the ceremonial puck drop because they opted out of naming a captain, but Deryk Engelland, who had been the first one they offered the honors, decided to pass on the opportunity. The defensemen wanted to say some things he had memorized and didn’t think it was fair to hog the spotlight. Instead, he recommended Jason Garrison. At the cue, Chance hopped off Marc-Andre’s shoulder and made his way down to Jason. While Chance has without a doubt abused his ability to teleport to Marc-Andre on every occasion possible, even if they were a mere five feet apart, he had yet to teleport to other players.

Together, the pair broke from the line and headed over to center ice to take the position in front of a few of the survivors, Bill Foley, and a few others. Bill had a large grin on his face as he watched the Cor bound across the ice alongside Jason. Chance slowed to a trot and then a walk as they neared the puck drop. Jason nodded in acknowledgment of the opposing captain as Howler stared down at Chance, who felt nothing but defiance sprinkled with a dash of respect for the fellow Cor. Once the ceremony had been completed, neither Cor made a move, still facing each other. It was Howler who reluctantly left first at the urging of his captain, though the Cor had a bit of annoyance in his demeanor as he slunk after his player.

Raising his head high and rustling his still-developing, nonfunctional wings, Chance made his way Bill Foley. He seemed to walk in what could be described as regal bravado, acting as if he had won a battle that left his opponent fleeing for the hills, tail between their legs. In actuality, he had done no such thing, but no one on the team was going to tell him otherwise. Chance was soaking in the energy in the building as he sat quietly beside the team’s owner. The little boy beside him, who had dropped the puck, stared at the Cor curiously. Chance tilted his head in return and boy giggled, reaching out and patting his head softly like one would with a dog. Much to the team’s relief, Chance didn’t mind one bit. 

Following the puck drop was 58 seconds of silence. To Marc, it was some of the longest 58 seconds of his life. The only things that came close were when he was waiting at the altar while his wife walked down the aisle. Marc could assume it felt so long because of the deafening silence. 

\--

Marc-Andre gave a lot of credit to Deryk. There was no way he would have been able to get up in front of all those people and give a prepared speech from memory, no matter how short. Marc was sure no one would be able to understand his accent, to begin with, but he had to have his sister talk to the pretty girl down the street for him. He felt incredibly lucky that it all worked out and that pretty girl was now his wife, but Marc knew he would stumble over his words or forget English altogether.

Yet Deryk never stumbled over his words. And everything that followed went according to the plan. 

But while the pregame went unbelievably smoothly, no one could have predicted how well they played. Everything after blurred in sparkling shades of gold because they were on top of the world and Marc-Andre couldn’t feel better. They had won 3 in a row, the first for an expansion team, yet everything good must come to an end. 

The end didn’t come about like the gradual ending of a storybook he would read to his daughter’s before bedtime. Of course not, why would it? This ending, and possibly the ending of his career, came about out of nowhere like a knee to the head. It was a knee to the head; Anthony Mantha’s knee to his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a side blog on Tumblr dedicated to Marc-Andre Fleury titled flowerontheice if you are interested. Also, here is a direct quote from an article about Flower that struck me particularly hard. No real connection to the story but I plan to incorporate it. How can I not?
> 
>  
> 
> Benjamin Cournoyer: “We were 14, and Marc-Andre was just sent back down to the AA level of midget after spending a little while in AAA. Now, most guys who go to AAA, even for a little bit, either act like hotshots or they act really upset about it. He didn’t do either. We had our first practice, and he was himself, all happy and hard working.” That changed when practice ended and most of Fleury’s teammates had left the rink. He was at the bench by himself and he got sick. He was vomiting there, and I was the only one who could see. We all thought he was fine. But that’s how upset he was about getting sent back down. He just didn’t want us to know.”


	5. Author's Note

I'm so sorry, but I've been really struggling with this.   
Initially, it was finals week and then I was dealing with my school's musical.   
At this point, I've hit a roadblock and I honestly don't know how to get out of it.   
Thank you so much for all of your support.   
I want to keep writing this story, but it's hard. 

If anyone wants to take this idea, go for it. Take it and run, please. I still have a soft spot for Chance, though.   
Maybe one day I'll get inspiration to keep writing this story. 

Here's what I had for the next chapter so far, but it's not much. 

 

\------------  
Sidney Crosby entered the room, noticing the TV in the corner turned on to the NHL network. Iceburgh hopped up onto one of the tables as he took a detour to the TV remote. He scrolled through the channels before pausing, quickly clicking out of the menu screen and turning up the volume.  
\--

 

“It happened very quickly. Look at how Fleury’s focus is on the puck, and then BAM! There’s the contact. Mantha’s knee hits his mask.”

“The athletic trainer was out there immediately, too.”

“And, the Golden Knights reported that Fleury passed all the in-game tests, but concussions are dangerous and unpredictable.” 

 

\--  
“Hey, Sid. How are you ‘Burgh” Patrice Hornqvist said, strolling into the kitchen for the team breakfast. Iceburgh honked loudly, flapping his wings furiously at the incoming players before snapping his attention back to the TV.   
\--

 

“Now, I give him a pass.” 

“The trainers?”

“No. Marc-Andre. Normally, a player might realize ‘Oh, maybe I should get checked out,’ but Flower basically lost the number one spot in Pittsburgh to Matt Murray because of a concussion.”

 

\--  
Sid winced, as did many others. The room was silent as they watched on the TV, the guys filing into the room were immediately drawn to the TV.  
\--

 

“That’s right! Fleury’s got a history of concussions and we know that that makes him more likely to--more susceptible to concussions. This is his third concussion.”

“So, you don’t think the trainers deserve a pass?”

“Absolutely not. Sure, the symptoms don’t always show right away, he passed in-game protocol, but watch how he’s holding his head after contact. The concussion spotters should have noticed. They should have noticed!”

“And yet here we are, a couple days later, and Vegas’ number one goalie is on IR with a concussion.”

“You know, you can’t help but think about the effect that this while having on the future of the Vegas Golden Knights. And the future of Marc-Andre Fleur’s career!”

 

“He’s got a wife and two young daughters at home.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Marc-Andre Fleury might have just played his last game of professional hockey.”  
\--

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a series of one-shots depicting the adventure the Vegas Golden Knights (specifically Fleury) have with Chance the golden dragon. I did take creative liberties with Chance being a golden dragon and not a Gila Monster. 
> 
> I've been planning this series for a while. In fact, I actually have all 31 NHL teams' Cors planned out with specific species and everything, so if you are wondering what a specific team's Cor is, just ask! Seriously though, if you have any questions about how Cors work, let me know. 
> 
> Feel free to write about this universe, but please ask if you are planning on writing about Chance because I have a lot of content of my own planned for him. 
> 
> Please forgive me if it takes me a long time to update!


End file.
